Page 33 of Kill Your Darlings

During the meeting with Vaughn and Lila, Vaughn had discussed the eventual possibility of creating a new position, that of editorial director.But he’d made it sound like that was something to be decided after the merger, after we’d all had a chance to work together, to evaluate our various strengths.

The position itself made sense.And it made sense that Vaughn would tap Lila for the role.But I wasn’t happy.Given the increasing strain between myself and Lila—well, let’s be honest.I wouldn’t have been happy about it even if Lila and I had been getting along like old chums.

They hadn’t been wrong.Iwasused to running my own little kingdom.The idea of working under Lila’s brand of micromanagement was not appealing.

To say the least.

For the first time I seriously considered leaving Millhouse.

It was a truly depressing thought.

I’d declined to sign the DNC clause Vaughn insisted we all had to agree to in order to continue our employment under the new entity (which increasingly sounded like the same old W&W with a few new faces).That wasn’t me striking a pose.It was survival instinct.I’d been in the book biz my entire adult life.I knew no way of earning a living outside of publishing.I couldn’t afford to sign a no-compete.Especially once I recognized my tenure at W&W might be more insecure than I’d realized.

My refusal had ruffled a few feathers, but in the end, Vaughn—to Lila’s clear disapprobation—had accepted it.But I’d used up a lot of good will with my refusal to sign.

While I had the option to leave, to start over somewhere else, the idea was daunting.At my age?I wasn’t a kid.And the idea of rebuilding my author list over the next twenty years was overwhelming.

Worse, I wasn’t sure where I’d even go.The industry had changed so much.The old indies were vanishing, eaten up by corporate players or quietly folding under the weight of rising costs and impossible margins.Editors were expected to be marketing machines now—part tastemaker, part influencer.There were fewer houses, fewer opportunities, and more pressure to chase trends and turn viral moments into publishing strategies.I didn’t specialize in BookTok sensations or high-concept hook-and-sinkers.My strengths lay in developing voices, shaping series, building careers—but that kind of long game didn’t show up in quarterly reports.

Even if someone was hiring, I wasn’t exactly the bright young thing anymore—unless, I was being compared to Rudolph Dunst.

The truth was, I wasn’t sure I had the stomach to start all over again—with no authors, no backlist, no leverage.

So yes, I could leave.Technically, the door was open.Realistically, there was no telling if there was anything on the other side of the door but air.

Perhaps I could turn freelance, but truthfully, I wasn’t much of a risk taker.I liked routine and regular paychecks.

I could retire.

My heart shrank at the idea—much as the Doves had recoiled at the suggestion.

No, I couldn’t.

Even if I could afford to—selling my father’s property in Steeple Hill would help a little, but not enough—what the hell would I do with myself?I didn’twantto retire.I loved my work.I felt like what I did was important; that I offered value to the world.

I needed to believe that.

But the world, too, was changing.And maybe the value I added was becoming irrelevant.

Rows of chairs ahead, I watched Hayes lean over to whisper something to Finn.Watched Finn’s profile crease in a smile.

MaybeIwas becoming irrelevant.

Chapter Nine

Steeple Hill was smaller than I remembered.

Smaller.More self-conscious.

Narrow streets once lined with squat, weathered storefronts and sagging wooden awnings were now home to cute boutiques and quaint coffeehouses.Steeple Hill was a tourist destination now, and it showed.The old general store, windows plastered with sun-faded flyers and yellowing notices from the 1960s, had been replaced by a bright and shiny VONS with a parking lot large enough to accommodate half the town should everyone decide to go shopping at the same time.There was still only one gas station, but Joey’s leaning, rust-streaked signpost had been replaced with a towering Valero neon sign that at night could be spotted from the main highway.

I’m not sure what made me turn down Seaside Lane.It had never entered my mind when I’d returned for my father’s funeral.After the funeral I’d gone straight to the Realtor’s office, told them to dump everything in the house, fix the place up, and put it on the market for as much as they could possibly get.I had been clear about never wanting to see it again.

I was still clear about never wanting to see it again.

And yet I’d brought the key.And here I was, driving down Seaside Lane, for one last look.

It turned out property values had jumped over the last few decades and $1.5 million for three beds, two baths in the heart of Steeple Hill had attracted multiple offers.There was no mortgage on the house, so yes.If W&W decided my services were no longer needed, I’d have a little breathing room.Not much, given the rental price of a loft apartment in Manhattan.

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